


Here's My Feathered Boa

by mysticsushi



Series: Feathered Boa series [2]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, POV Spike, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post: s05e22 The Gift, trying to have a plot, why did I write a sequal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-09
Updated: 2014-06-09
Packaged: 2018-02-03 23:27:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1759615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mysticsushi/pseuds/mysticsushi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Oz pays his respects and returns a favor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Here's My Feathered Boa

Spike stands over the mound of dirt, which seems fresh although it is, in truth, several weeks old. Drops fall onto the dirt, drops that rain down from his eyes. He can’t believe he still mourns her death, but knows that once he lets that go he has nothing left of her. His grief is his last and final connection to her.

With a shaky hand he places a bouquet of roses on the dirt by the marker, then caresses the marker with that same hand. More tears fall as he stares at the name that should not be carved into stone. He stares at the name Buffy Summers and curses everything and everyone he can think of for taking her away.

The vampire stands, wipes his eyes, and with his hands in the pockets of his duster walks away. His worn boots make no sound as he stalks towards the Watcher’s apartment. Spike needs to tell Giles about the demon he killed earlier, when he was on his way to visit Buffy’s grave.

He still helps fight evil, which shocks the remaining group members to no end. They expected him to return to his old ways, but there is no way he can, not ever again. Fighting is what she would have wanted him to do, and he’s going to do his best to make her proud.

When he reaches the Watcher’s door Spike knocks hard once, waits a beat, and lets himself in. He does *not* want to walk in on the Englishman and his lady friend, especially after the last time. The images of the naked man are still burned onto Spike’s retinas. Now he gives the mortal a chance to cover himself before entering.

“I’ve got news, Watcher,” he says, pushing the door shut.

He turns when there is no comment on his arrival, no scathing insult, no exasperated collection of sighs. There are some things in life he has come to expect, but dead silence when he enters a room has ceased to be one of them.

Standing in front of him is another person, and with a bizarre comfort Spike realizes the figure is the reason for the silence. The other people in the room do not acknowledge the vampire because they are staring so intently at who is in front of him.

“Oz,” Willow whispers.

And suddenly the sent hanging in the air is intimately familiar, although not exactly the same as before. Now there is salt, sunscreen, and flowers along with dye, nailpolish, and animal pheromones. It is not, Spike notices, a distasteful smell.

From behind he studies the shorter man. Oz’s hair is a deep red, so deep Spike is tempted to name the color blood because it borders black. It still stands in spiky disarray, cut close to his skin at the nape. He’s wearing a suit of all things and is holding a mixed arrangement of flowers in one hand. The other hand curls in a defensive gesture that contrasts the blatant calm in his posture.

The blonde guesses he arrived immediately after Oz, because shock is still evident on the faces of the others. His lips tug into a smirk, because even if he’s playing nice and fighting evil it doesn’t mean he can’t enjoy pain. There had been too much pain in his life recently and he wants others to share it.

Giles breaks out of his shock first and notices Spike standing behind Oz. “Spike? What are you doing here?”

The proverbial pin drops as the other occupants of the room spear him with their eyes, almost accusing. He didn’t mean to crash the party, honest. Nothing but a harmless vampire out for a walk in the apartment.

“Like I said, I’ve got news.” He rolls his eyes, playing his part. “A chap’ll think you’ve got nothin’ between your ears if you keep this up.”

He earns a disapproving and angry stare from the Englishman, who prides himself on his intelligence. “I hope you’re here to bring us more than your good cheer.”

“Just thought you’d like to know about the new nasty in town, but I guess I was wrong. Don’t let me keep you from your little reunion.”

Starts to turn, but is stopped by a noise. To all present it seems as if Giles’s words have stopped the vampire, but in reality it is the faint whimper from Oz. Spike can see he is the only ally the werewolf has. And he holds on to it, that he is needed by someone. It’s been too long since anyone has needed him.

“What are you talking about, Spike?” Giles had asked.

“I’m talkin’ about a demon I killed, thought you might want to know about,” Spike explains.

An arrogant chuckle from Xander, and when the chip is in pieces Spike swears he’s going to tear out the youth’s throat. Just so he won’t have to hear that noise anymore.

“If you killed it then it’s not much of a threat, is it, Bleach Boy?”

He can’t suppress the faint growl, but it’s okay. No one but Oz can hear it anyway. “It’s a threat if it brought its nasty-tempered kin, Special Ed. But you’re obviously too busy playin’ with Dogboy, so I’ll just leave you to it.”

Spike’s still playing his part, because it’s all he can do, but this time it’s different - Oz understands. There’s no word, no noticeable movement to show this, but Spike knows just the same. The smirk returns to his face because the evening might be a little fun after all.

“Xander, Spike - please,” Giles chides, looking tired beyond his years. The Englishman’s favorite look, in Spike’s opinion. “Spike, why don’t you stop by tomorrow after sunset and tell me about it. There’s not much that can be done tonight.”

And just like that he’s dismissed, as if the Big Bad can be dismissed. He has to remind himself that he’s not the Big Bad anymore, but a neutered version. Never has he wanted the chip out more than at that moment so he can show them exactly what they’ve been mistreating.

“What are you doing here, Oz?” Willow asks, who hasn’t even acknowledged Spike’s presence in the room.

The werewolf shifts a little, as if startled by being the center of attention again. “I heard about Buffy. Thought I’d pay my respects,” he says.

“How?” Willow questions. “We didn’t know where to reach you.”

But both supernatural creatures hear what she doesn’t say, that they didn’t think to try to reach him. They both ignore what is unsaid, at least for the current time, but latch onto it for further study later.

“I couldn’t avoid hearing about it,” Oz says cryptically. Spike wonders what the werewolf has been doing over the past year, if he heard about the death of the Slayer.

The original gang looks at each other, unsure of what to say. Finally, Willow speaks, but it’s as if she’s pushed into doing so. “You’ll have to go to her grave. Dawn’s not in any shape to talk about it and Joyce . . . she died a few months ago.”

“Yeah, I knew that, too.”

Dead silence as they wonder about that, puzzle over it in their brains. Spike sees an opportunity and decides to grab for it. He never got anywhere in unlife by sitting still.

“Come on, Wolfie, I’ll take you there. It’s on my way home.”

For the first time that night, Oz turns and looks at Spike. His face looks almost the same, but there’s a hardness around his eyes and mouth that hadn’t been there before.

“Thanks.” The mask doesn’t slip as he turns back to the still staring group. “It was good seeing you guys again.”

Together wolf and vampire walk out of the apartment, the door closing shut behind them with a soft click. Even though they hear a female voice telling Oz to hold on, to wait a minute, they keep walking. Neither wants to be in that room for another moment.

“You’re just goin’ to leave it like that?” Spike asks, grateful for this instant communication and understanding. He doesn’t have to explain himself to the mortal; he is just accepted and known.

“Yeah,” Oz says. “There’s nothing else to say.”

The vampire can’t argue with that. He’s got first hand experience that the Slayer’s loyal followers leave little room for extended conversation. Too busy listening to their own useless prattle.

“So how’d you know?”

“About Buffy? Kinda hard not to. Every non-human creature has been talking about it.”

“Really,” Spike says, pleased by association. “Still doesn’t explain it, though. You’re not exactly buddy-buddy with the non-human creatures.” Pauses. “Are you?”

Oz glances at him, that strange pseudo-smile on his lips. “Things happen.”

That’s all he says, but it’s what he doesn’t say that Spike understands – don’t ask, I don’t like the answer. He understands, but he doesn’t like it. Not wanting to alienate his one possible ally, Spike tires to satisfy his curiosity with other information.

“So where’ve you been?”

“Miami. I work as a bartender,” the wolf adds, anticipating the next question. “They let me play with the house band, so I can work on not sucking as a musician.”

Nothing more can be said, not now, for they reach Buffy’s grave. Spike can’t believe he’s here twice in one night. The Slayer must be laughing her ass off wherever she is.

“She was all of us,” Oz whispers, placing his bouquet next to Spike’s roses. He stays kneeling for a moment, staring at the tombstone, then stands.

“What?”

There’s almost a full smile on Oz’s lips, but this isn’t the time or place for that. “Nothing,” he says. “Private joke.”

Oddly, the blonde doesn’t feel left out like he usually does. They each share something different with the body buried six feet under. Let it be secret, between the living and the dead, as it is meant to be.

Oz is looking at Spike, and he recognizes the wolf’s expression. He saw it last time they met, but this isn’t the place for that, either.

“Walk me to my hotel?”

Spike hesitates, unsure if he wants where this will head. He’s found love since that last time, but he’s also lost it. And he realizes exactly what his companion is offering – comfort, connection, silence. Everything that he gave he will now get back, and he knows he needs it.

Can’t let go of the game, though. “Why not. Can’t let the demon’s get to you and leave me open to a staking.”

He earns a smirk that time from Oz, and Spike’s thrilled that a he’s found this kindred spirit. One who knows about pre-cast roles and just how impossible it is to change them. One who understands strategy and self-preservation.

The hotel room is clean and smells of nothing, which bothers them both. Everything should have a distinctive smell, a marker that makes it identifiable and unique. They’ll make it smell of something, of sex and sweat, before the night is through.

As he pulls off his duster he scans the room, much as Oz had scanned the crypt upon his visit. The room looks dull and boring, decorated in neutral tones and lack personality. The only thing that catches his attention is the feathered boa sitting on the dresser.

Oz notices where the vampire’s focus is. “I was hoping I’d run into you,” he says, as if that can explain everything. This time a few words just don’t do it. Spike needs more information, because he really doesn’t understand the feathered boa, but doesn’t want to break the moment with facts.

Spike watches as the mortal picks it up in his hands, runs his fingers over and through the feathers. Willingly allows himself to be trapped, just this once, because the blonde knows the reward for his acquiescence. The boa catches his shoulders and allows Oz to pull, bringing them close together.

Neither one initiates the kiss – they come together, crushing their lips together. Spike takes over, the need for contact overwhelming. His hands clutch at the head in front of him, holding it as still and close as possible. His tongue sweeps, claims, because it’s one of the only ways he can.

The clothes come off relatively easily except for the boa. The vampire ends up shredding it, sending feathers flying all over the room. He doesn’t care; it’s extra and unnecessary detail. Oz doesn’t seem to mind, so he forgets about it.

The two men fall back on the bed, kissing and clutching at each other amidst the feathers. Spike ends up on top, is the one who needs to be on top, and needs no foreplay to be ready. He feels Oz’s hardness against his stomach and knows foreplay is definitely out of the question.

He remembers to lubricate himself before penetrating the tight hole. No need to cause pain, not now, not to both of them. Spike pushes and pushes and oh god, Oz is tighter than Harmony ever could have been. The pleasure is so much all at once its pain, but a good kind. He’s a connoisseur of pain, so he knows the difference.

Oz lifts his legs to provide easier access and then the thrusts begin, in and out and in and out and in. Their lips meet repeatedly, causing the guitarist’s shaft to rub between the two bodies. Groans, growls, moans, pleas, and other sounds meld into the walls, leaving their own mark for future occupants.

Spike’s hands grasp at the shoulders beneath him, using them to help with his movements. With detached surprise he realizes he’s gripping hard enough to bruise and the chip isn’t causing pain. The possibilities that could be explored, all sprung from this one moment.

No time to dwell, because ecstasy rushes on him and he reaches his climax with a body racking shudder. One of his hands drifts down to help relieve Oz. After only a few tugs the hand is covered with the young man’s release.

The rest is all mechanical – washing off his hand and chest, picking feathers out of his hair, putting on his clothes. He looks at Oz, and is struck by how similar this all seems to the last time. Except he’s the one leaving.

“See you around,” Oz says, playing a strand of the boa that still has feathers on it. He pauses and tosses it to Spike, who, after a moment, puts it in his pocket.

“Yeah, mate, see you around.”

Duster moving behind him in the night wind, Spike walks through the sleeping town towards his home. His steps have more confidence, his stride more purpose. For the first time since the chip, and especially since Buffy’s death, his head seems clear. He can focus on his life and the problems surrounding it.

It’s a tenuous game Spike’s been playing for the past year, one that’s getting harder and harder to participate in. He’s always had to be strategic about his choices. He does what’s best for him, and that currently involves keeping himself alive long enough to get the chip out. That requires patience and he has very little, but his options are even less.

Like Shakespeare said, each man has his part. Spike plays the part he’s been given by the Scoobies because he’s not free to do anything else. He adjusts, puts on the show they want to see, and keeps himself alive. When the chip is gone, however, he’ll make them understand everything. Give them parts of their own.

And when he sees Oz again, he’ll have to replace the feathered boa. The werewolf is, after all, an ally. And Spike doesn’t stiff his allies.


End file.
